§ § § -- January 17, 1992

Late Friday night, after Leslie had gone reluctantly to bed, Roarke played a hunch and remained in the study for awhile, using the time to clear away some of the endless paperwork. His instincts had been active all day, and he wanted the chance to find out if they were right.

It took some time, and at first it was nothing more than the unusually cool breeze that suddenly wafted into the room through the open French shutters. But it was all the signal Roarke needed. He looked up, frowned, then closed a folder and arose from the desk, turning to gaze onto the terrace. He stood silently, waiting, while a stronger gust of wind eddied around the terrace and stirred the air in the study. The third time this happened, he shook his head slightly. "Enough," he called out, without raising his voice to the point where Leslie would be awakened. "Show yourself."

A glowing mist flickered fitfully into sight, slowly resolving into the vague silhouette of a human form, then gradually coalescing to reveal a man in his late forties. He had the look of someone who feels that life has unfairly beaten him down; his clothing was rumpled and scorched, and he bore burn marks on every bit of exposed skin. Curiously, in one hand he held a gasoline can; Roarke noted this with some surprise.

"Recognize the analogy?" the figure asked sourly, seeing where Roarke's gaze was directed. "A nice literary touch."

"Indeed," Roarke said, raising his eyebrows. He studied the man in front of him for a moment, then said reflectively, "So you are Michael Hamilton, then."

"A damn shame, isn't it?" Hamilton agreed. "And I'm sure Leslie would agree."

Roarke regarded him coolly. "I don't presume to convey Leslie's feelings toward you. Rather, shall we simply get to the point, Mr. Hamilton? You are the one who has been invading her dreams these last several nights, and indeed for the past thirteen years—ever since the night you destroyed everything she had ever known."

"It was the only way I was allowed to communicate with her," Hamilton said defensively. "And before you tell me what a lousy way it was, you should know that I wasn't the one in control of what I can or can't do. You'll have to talk to someone else."

"Oh, that I shall, in due time," Roarke said. "But there is one question that only you can answer. Why have you plagued Leslie with nightmares for all these years?"

"I need her help," Hamilton muttered, obviously reluctant to admit it. "I knew I'd need her help not too long after the fire. She had nightmares before she came here, but I had nothing to do with those. After Shannon's will was read and Leslie was sent to your island, I had the opportunity to try to send her messages through those dreams." He rolled his eyes all of a sudden. "I suppose Shannon told you back in '65 that I tried to talk her out of coming here, because I figured this place was one hell of a sweet scam you'd dreamed up."

"She did mention something to that effect, yes," Roarke recalled.

Hamilton looked quite annoyed and put out at having to make the admission as he grumbled, "Well, since Leslie came to live here, I've been shown on countless occasions just how wrong I was about that. I've been given to understand that this place is the gateway, if you will, for all sorts of interaction between mortals and…uh, others. And I was also in-formed in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to get through to Leslie, I'd have to do it here, the only place where it was possible."

"Correct," Roarke said tonelessly.

"All right, then," Hamilton said. "As much as it galls me to do it…I have no choice. I've waited for some way to resolve my so-called existence for what seems like ages, and now the time's finally come—but I don't like the way it has to be done."

Roarke smiled, amused. "Then allow me to do it for you, Mr. Hamilton. You wish to request a fantasy of me, and that fantasy would be to persuade Leslie to help you escape the limbo you are now in and find some measure of peace."

"Such as it would be, yes," Hamilton said. "I'm told that I'll be punished one way or another for my misdeeds. Not that I care, because I was right and I know it. But I've had it with wandering between worlds and being unable to do anything except drift aimlessly." He hefted the gasoline can and glared at it. "I'm particularly fed up with hauling this damn thing around. So I want out, and I need Leslie's help to get there. Can you do that?"

Roarke regarded him long enough that he began to look faintly anxious in spite of himself, and finally tilted his head to one side just a little. "This may be the first fantasy I am unable to grant—for, unfortunately for you, Leslie is the one you must ask, and I make no guarantees about her willingness to assist you."

"Then just give me the chance to actually talk to her," Hamilton said. "I can't make myself heard through those damn dreams—she never remembered them anyway once she woke up—so if you can get her to listen to me, then I'll do the rest myself."

"That, I believe I can do," Roarke told him. "Very well, Mr. Hamilton. Return here tomorrow afternoon at exactly one o'clock, and we will proceed from there."

§ § § -- January 18, 1992

"You look better today, Miss Leslie," Mariki remarked at lunch, placing a bowl of linguine in marinara sauce on the table. "I could tell you were having trouble sleeping, and I guess you've cured that."

"I guess," murmured Leslie, perplexed. She waited till Mariki had left the veranda, then looked at Roarke. "I still don't understand why I didn't have the dream last night. Do you think something's going to happen?"

"Oh, it will," Roarke assured her. "Just be patient, Leslie."

She gave him a dubious look, but shrugged in resignation and began to eat. Neither of them said much throughout the meal, and they both declined dessert. Leaving Mariki to gather the dishes, they both arose from the table and started back for the door; on the way, Roarke unobtrusively checked his gold watch.

Leslie stepped into the foyer first, glanced into the room and halted so abruptly that Roarke nearly collided with her from behind. He steadied himself with a hand on each of her arms, just below the shoulders, and followed her gaze. Sure enough, Michael Hamilton's ghost, looking quite corporeal, was sitting in one of the club chairs, one leg crossed over the other, swinging the elevated foot. He turned when he heard them enter and stood up.

Roarke waited, watching Leslie and the ghost, while the two stared at each other. Finally Hamilton remarked, "Well, you grew into a pretty good-looking girl."

Leslie only stared back at him; Roarke let her loose, but made no comment. The silence grew electric. Finally the ghost demanded, "Well, say something!"

Obliging him, she snapped, "What are you doing here?" She turned to Roarke and repeated the question. "What's he doing here?"

"He has requested an audience with you, Leslie," Roarke explained, "and I agreed to grant it to him. Before you protest any further, you should be interested to know that he has been responsible for those dreams you've been having all these years. If you truly wish to be freed of them, then you should hear him out."

Leslie turned back to the ghost with a curled lip and a roll of the eyes. "I should have known you were to blame," she said. "So fine, then. What do you want?"

"How thoroughly rude," Hamilton said, scowling at her. "I wonder if your mother really knew what she was doing when she put you in Roarke's care. His good manners don't seem to have rubbed off on you at all."

"I don't see any reason to be polite to you, after what you did," Leslie said curtly. "I wonder if you know that I saw every move you made that night? I was outside the whole time, watching you circling the house, splattering gas all over the walls."

Hamilton stared at her in astonishment; it was clear he hadn't known at all. "Is that a fact?" he said, and suddenly a cruel smile spread over his features. "If you knew what I was doing, why didn't you stop me?"

Stricken, Leslie gaped at him; her face drained of color, and Roarke put a hand on her arm for reassurance before addressing Hamilton. "Mr. Hamilton, I believe you are in need of Leslie's help," he reminded the ghost. "Baiting her in this manner certainly won't get you the assistance you seek. I suggest you stick to the reason you are here, because your time is limited—as I'm sure you know."

Hamilton sighed loudly. "All right, fine. The reason you see me here at all, Leslie, is because I'm in existential limbo. Ever since the night of the fire, I've been stuck in this kind of 'in-between' world. I can't go on to whatever fate awaits me, because I've been given to understand that I need your forgiveness before I can find any peace at all."

Her mouth dropped open and she actually stumbled back a step. "And you expect me to give it to you?" she croaked when she found her voice.

"You're supposed to," he said with a smirk. "I'm your father."

"No you're not," she shot back, on surer ground for a moment. "You weren't much of a father to me or the twins when you were alive, and I refuse to acknowledge you as such now. I disowned you years ago. You're nothing to me, Michael Hamilton—just the same way I was nothing to you."

Hamilton regarded her frigid glare and then turned to Roarke, a spark of interest in his eyes. "She's got backbone after all," he commented. "I thought she was going to turn out to be like her sister Kristy. That one was a serious crybaby." He returned his regard to Leslie, though his words were still addressed to a silent Roarke. "Y'know, she's gonna be a tougher nut to crack than I thought."

"Let's speak theoretically," Leslie suggested sarcastically. "Let's pretend you actually stood a chance of my forgiving you for the murders you committed that night. What would happen to you then?"

"Oh, well, then I'd get out of this limbo," Hamilton said with a shrug.

"You'd be doomed to the underworld, of course, wouldn't you?" Leslie prompted.

Hamilton peered at her. "You'd like that, huh? Yup, I'd literally go to hell."

Leslie nodded slowly. "Hmm, I see." She studied him for a moment, then spotted the gas can in his right hand and loosed a sharp crack of mirthless laughter. "Oh, that's rich. How Dickensian, you dragging that thing around like Marley's ghost. A very nice touch, whoever was responsible for it. But boy, I don't know whether to leave you in limbo or send you off to hell. Undoubtedly if I did the latter, you'd get the punishment you so desperately deserve. But if going to hell would give you peace…"

"You say," Roarke broke in then from behind his desk where he had retreated and taken a seat in his chair, "that you believe he deserves to be punished for killing your mother and your sisters, Leslie. Should that not make the choice easy for you?"

Leslie gave him a plaintive look. "It does sound very simple, doesn't it. But don't you remember what I've told you about this man across the years, Mr. Roarke? He never wanted kids; he made it abundantly clear to me and my sisters that he resented our very existence, and he treated us with contempt all the time. We always knew exactly where we stood with him. Kelly and I both detested him, and Kristy was terrified of him. The only reason the family stayed together till he blew it apart was Mom. She was the peacemaker, and she kept interceding for us. She made life as bearable for us as she could."

Roarke nodded slowly. "I understand, Leslie, and I am aware of your antipathy toward him. And I do remember what little you've told me of him in the past. But you might do well to remember what I told you one year when an orphaned gymnast came to the island, and you took her side despite the fact that she was in the wrong. Do you remember that fantasy?"

"Trudy Brown," Leslie said, nodding.

"Precisely," Roarke said. "We had a long talk that day, you and I, and you might recall that I told you that nurturing your anger, keeping it alive, would bring you nothing but a wasted life and reduce you to a bitter harpy whom no one could bear to be around. Do you remember that?"

Again Leslie nodded, reluctantly. "Yes, I do."

"Did you fail to ruminate on that advice?" Roarke asked gently.

"I was fifteen, Mr. Roarke," she said. "I was still very angry and I couldn't let go. And maybe that anger has been there too long for me to release it. It kept popping up through the years, from time to time."

"Yes, I seem to remember a threat you once made to a guest who intended to see me killed," Roarke said, faintly amused momentarily. "Your fierce anger stems from what you have always felt toward Michael Hamilton. You must learn to dissolve that anger. You may find it anathema, Leslie, but you must do it—for your own peace of mind if nothing else."

She struggled to grasp the idea, to make some sense of it, but Roarke could tell that she didn't see at all how forgiving the man she so loathed would give her peace of mind. Before he could try to persuade her any further, Hamilton said, "Don't you think you'd be more satisfied to see me burning in hell? Nothing happens to me in limbo—all I do is plod around in some kind of alternate plane, without really suffering."

"Maybe the price is just too high for me," Leslie said, closing her eyes and swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke…" She turned away and raced out through the open French shutters, vanishing in a twinkling.

Roarke and Hamilton regarded each other, and Hamilton shrugged. "Yup, definitely a tough nut to crack. But I'll get through to my daughter, one way or another. She has to do her filial duty to me, after all."

"You're likely to have trouble convincing Leslie of that," Roarke observed. "I don't believe she considers herself your daughter. You heard her moments ago, announcing that she has long since disowned you."

"Ha," snorted Hamilton. "And has she ever referred to you as her father?" Roarke frowned at him, the tiniest trace of doubt creeping into his dark eyes. "Yeah, I know you adopted my kid, but she calls you 'Mr. Roarke', not 'Dad'…and she still uses my surname, the one she was born with. So how can that mean she's accepted you over me? I think she still feels some kind of loyalty to me, some sort of obligation—which is only right, because as her father—her real father, mind you—I'm due, and she owes me." He smirked at Roarke and lifted the gasoline can at him, as if raising a glass in a toast. "I'll be back later on to try again. See you then." So saying, he blinked out of sight. Roarke stared sightlessly at the place where he'd been, expression very pensive, mulling uncomfortably over Hamilton's words.